g>tm  anb  Babble 
Heatfrer 

Cfiarlts  SSabjjer  Clarfe,  f  r. 

Jllultt'teb  lip  I.  3.  Swffman 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO      j 


1 


SUN  AND  SADDLE  LEATHER 


"If  hen  the  last  free  trail  is  a  prim,  jencid  lain 
And    our    f/r  fires    grow    weeds    throiit/h    forgetful 
Mays, 

Richer  and  statelier   then    you'll   reujn, 

Mother  of  men  whom   the  world  will  praise. 

And  your  sons  will  lore  yon  and  sigh  for  you, 

Labor   and   battle    and    die    for    you, 
But  ne-rer  the  fondest  will  understand 
The  way  -we  hare  lored  you,  youny,  yoiint/  land. 


SUN  AND  SADDLE 
LEATHER 

BY 

CHARLES  BADGER  CLARK,  JR. 


ILLUSTRATIONS   FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS   BV 
L.    A.   HUFFMAN 


BOSTON:  RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

TORONTO:  THE  COPP  CLARK  co.,  LIMITED 


COPYRIGHT,  1915  AND  1917,  BY  CHARLES  BADGER  CLARK,  JR. 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  MY  FATHER, 

who,  in  his  long  life,  has  seldom  been 
conscious  of  a  man  s  rough  exterior, 
or  unconscious  of  his  obscurest  virtue. 


A  FEW  WORDS  FROM  THE  PUBLISHER 

ABOUT   MR.   L.  A.   HUFFMAN,  THE 

"WESTERN  REPRESENTATIVE" 


Early  last  fall  we  were  fortunate  enough  to 
discover  Mr.  L.  A.  Huffman  of  Miles  City,  Mon 
tana,  the  illustrator  who  in  1878  began  to  take  pho 
tographs  with  crude  cameras  which  he  made  him 
self.  These  same  photographs  were  the  first  of  the 
now  famous  Huffman  Pictures  comprising  nearly 
six  thousand  historic  subjects,  beginning  with  the 
Indians  and  buffaloes  round  about  Fort  Keogh  on 
the  Yellowstone,  where  he  was  post  photographer  in 
General  Miles'  army  in  the  stirring  territorial  days. 

Mr.  Huffman  wrote  us  a  letter,  a  very  breezy  one 
for  a  man  sixty-five  or  one  hundred  years  young. 
He  had  come  across  this  little  book  of  verse  and 
tried  to  buy  it.  He  wanted  only  two  hundred  cop 
ies  at  once.  Later  when  we  asked  him  if  he  would 
be  interested  in  our  new  edition,  he  promptly  re 
plied: 

"Sure!  I  am  interested  to  the  extent  of  about 
five  hundred  copies.  If  I  had  a  down-town  book 
store  instead  of  this  old  studio  in  sagebrush  out- 
5 


skirts  of  the  old  cow  and  horse  town,  I'd  easily 
make  it  a  thousand  copies,  and  with  the  order  I'd 
say  something  very  pointedly  respecting  your  selec 
tion  of  a  sales  manager  for  the  short  grass  country 
where  there  is, — thanks  be! — still  room  to  back  away 
and  call  a  man  a  liar.  I  have  read  some  western 
verse  these  last  forty  years.  Here  and  there  you 
will  find  a  'twelver,'  then,  dilution  a-plenty! 

"Only  yesterday  I  read  aloud  'The  Old  Cow 
Man'  to  an  old  cow  man,  and  when  I  had  finished 
the  stanza: 

'When  my  old  soul  hunts  range  and  rest 

Beyond  the  last  divide, 
Just  plant  me  in  some  stretch  of  West 

That's  sunny,  lone,  and  wide. 
Let  cattle  rub  my  tombstone  down 

And  coyotes  mourn  their  kin, 
Let  hawses  paw  and  tromp  the  moun' 

But  don't  you  fence  it  in.' 

"He  said  in  a  choky  voice  and  with  more  than  a 

hint  of  moisture  in  his  eyes,  'Who  in  H is  this 

kid  Clark,  anyway?'  and  he  coughed  up  three  bones 
for  copies  of  the  book.  Later  by  phone  he  ordered 
three  more  copies  and  added,  'You  can  break  me  if 
there's  a  dead  poem  in  it.  I  read  the  hull  twenty- 
two.  I  don't  know  how  Clark  knowed,  but  he 
knows!' '' 

Mr.  Huffman  is  handling  the  sale  of  Sun  and 
Saddle  Leather  in  Montana  and  the  adjacent  states. 
6 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Ridin'  13 

The  Song  of  the  Leather 15 

A  Bad  Half  Hour 17 

From  Town    19 

A  Cowboy's  Prayer 21 

The  Christmas  Trail 23 

A  Border  Affair   26 

The  Bunk-House  Orchestra 28 

The  Outlaw    30 

The  Legend  of  Boastful  Bill 32 

The  Tied  Maverick 35 

A  Roundup  Lullaby 37 

The  Trail  o'  Love 39 

Bachin'   41 

The  Glory  Trail 43 

Bacon   46 

The  Lost  Pardner 47 

7 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

God's  Reserves   49 

The  Married  Man 51 

The  Old  Cow  Man 54 

The  Plainsmen   57 

The  Westerner 59 


8 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

When  the  last  free  trail  is  a  prim,  fenced  lane 
And  our  graves  grow  weeds  through  forgetful 
Mays, 

Richer  and  statelier  then  you  II  reign, 

Mother    of   men   whom    the   world   will   praise. 

And  your  sons  will  love  you  and  sigh  for  you, 

Labor   and  battle   and   die  for  you, 

But   never   the   fondest   will   understand 

The  way  we  have  loved  you,  young,  young  land, 

— Frontispiece. 

FACING 
PAGE 

When  my  feet  is  in  the  stirrups 

And  my  hawse  is  on  the  bust.     .         .         .14 

There's  a  time  to   be  slow  and  a  time  to  be 

quick.      .          .          .          .          .         .          .16 

We  have  gathered  fightin    pointers  from  the 

famous  bronco  steed.        .          .          .          .20 

The  taut  ropes  sing  like  a  banjo  string 

And  the  latigoes  creak  and  strain.         .          .     30 

/  wait  to  hear  him  ridin    up  behind.       .         .     48 

There's  land  where  yet  no  ditchers  dig 

Nor   cranks   experiment; 
It's  only  lovely,  free  and  big 

And  isn't  worth  a  cent.       .          .          .          -54 

Born  of  a  free,  world-wandering  race 

Little  we  yearned   o'er  an   oft-turned  sod.     58 


SUN  AND  SADDLE  LEATHER 


RIDIN' 

There  is  some  that  likes  the  city — 

Grass  that's  curried  smooth  and  green, 
Theaytres  and  stranglin'  collars, 

Wagons  run  by  gasoline — 
But  for  me  it's  hawse  and  saddle 

Every  day  without  a  change, 
And  a  desert  sun  a-blazin' 

On  a  hundred  miles  of  range. 

Just  a-ridin',  a-ridin — 

Desert  ripplin    in  the  sun, 

Mountains  blue  along  the  skyline — 
I  don't  envy  anyone 
When   I'm   ridin, 

When  my  feet  is  in  the  stirrups 

And  my  hawse  is  on  the  bust, 
With  his  hoofs  a-flashin'  lightnin' 

From  a  cloud  of  golden  dust, 
And  the  bawlin'  of  the  cattle 

Is  a-comin'  down  the  wind 
Then  a  finer  life  than  ridin' 

Would  be  mighty  hard  to  find. 

Just  a-ridin ' ,  a-ridin  — 
Split  tin'  long  cracks  through  the  air, 
Stirrin    up  a  baby  cyclone, 
Rip  pin'  up  the  prickly  pear 
As  I'm  ridin'. 
13 


I  don't  need  no  art  exhibits 

When  the  sunset  does  her  best, 
Paintin'  everlastin'  glory 

On  the  mountains  to  the  west, 
And  your  opery  looks  foolish 

When  the  night-bird  starts  his  tune 
And  the  desert's  silver  mounted 

By  the  touches  of  the  moon. 

Just  a-ridin,  a-ridin  , 

Who  kin  envy  kings  and  czars 
When  the  coyotes  down  the  valley 

Are  a-singin    to  the  stars, 
If  he's  ridin? 

When  my  earthly  trail  is  ended 

And  my  final  bacon  curled 
And  the  last  great  roundup's  finished 

At  the  Home  Ranch  of  the  world 
I  don't  want  no  harps  nor  haloes, 

Robes  nor  other  dressed  up  things — 
Let  me  ride  the  starry  ranges 

On  a  pinto  hawse  with  wings! 

Just  a-ridin' ,  a-ridin' — 

Nothin   I'd  like  half  so  well 

As  a-roundin   up  the  sinners 

That  have  wandered  out  of  Hell, 
And  a-ridin  . 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LEATHER 

Wheri  my  trail  stretches  out  to  the  edge  of  the  sky 
Through  the  desert  so  empty  and  bright, 

When  I'm  watchin'  the  miles  as  they  go  crawlin'  by 
And  a-hopin'  I'll  get  there  by  night, 

Then  my  hawse  never  speaks  through  the  long  sunny 

day, 
But  my  saddle  he  sings  in  his  creaky  old  way: 

"Easy — easy — easy — 

For  a  temperit  pace  ain't  a  crime. 
Let  your  mount  hit  it  steady,  but  give  him  his  ease, 
For  the  sun  hammers  hard  and  there ' s  never  a  breeze. 

We  kin  get  there  in  plenty  of  time." 

When  I'm  after  some  critter  that's  hit  the  high  lope, 

And  a-spurrin'  my  hawse  till  he  flies, 
When  I'm  watchin'  the  chances  for  throwin'  my 

rope 

And  a-winkin'  the  sweat  from  my  eyes, 
Then  the  leathers  they  squeal  with  the  lunge  and  the 

swing 
And  I  work  to  the  livelier  tune  that  they  sing: 

"Reach  "im!  reach  "im!  reach  "im! 
If  you  lather  your  hawse  to  the  heel! 
There's  a  time  to  be  slow  and  a  time  to  be  quick; 
Never  mind  if  it's  rough  and  the  bushes  are  thick — 
Pull  your  hat  down  and  fling  in  the  steel!" 
15 


When  I've  rustled  all  day  till  I'm  achin'  for  rest 
And  I'm  ordered  a  night-guard  to  ride, 

With  the  tired  little  moon  hangin'  low  in  the  west 
And  my  sleepiness  fightin'  my  pride, 

Then  I  nod  and  I  blink  at  the  dark  herd  below 
And  the  saddle  he  sings  as  my  hawse  paces  slow : 

"Sleepy — sleepy — sleepy — 
We  was  ordered  a  close  watch  to  keep, 

But  I'll  sing  you  a  song  in  a  drowsy  old  key; 

All  the  world  is  a-snoozin    so  why  shouldn't  we? 
Go  to  sleep,  pardner  mine,  go  to  sleep" 


16 


/  here's  a  time  fo  be  stoic  and  a  tune  to  be  quick. 


A  BAD  HALF  HOUR 

Wonder  why  I  feel  so  restless; 

Moon  is  shinin'  still  and  bright, 
Cattle  all  is  restin'  easy, 

But  I  just  kaint  sleep  tonight. 
Ain't  no  cactus  in  my  blankets, 

Don't  know  why  they  feel  so  hard — 
'Less  it's  Waxblin'  Jim  a-singin' 

"Annie  Laurie"  out  on  guard. 

"Annie  Laurie" — wish  he'd  quit  it! 

Couldn't  sleep  now  if  I  tried. 
Makes  the  night  seem  big  and  lonesome, 

And  my  throat  feels  sore  inside. 
How  my  Annie  used  to  sing  it ! 

And  it  sounded  good  and  gay 
Nights  I  drove  her  home  from  dances 

When  the  east  was  turnin'  gray. 

Yes,  "her  brow  was  like  the  snowdrift" 

And  her  eyes  like  quiet  streams, 
"And  her  face" — I  still  kin  see  it 

Much  too  frequent  in  my  dreams; 
And  her  hand  was  soft  and  trembly 

That  night  underneath  the  tree, 
When  I  couldn't  help  but  tell  her 

She  was  "all  the  world  to  me." 


But  her  folks  said  I  was  "shif  less," 

"Wild,"  "unsettled," — they  was  right, 
For  I  leaned  to  punchin'  cattle 

And  I'm  at  it  still  tonight. 
And  she  married  young  Doc  Wilkins — 

Oh  my  Lord!  but  that  was  hard! 
Wish  that  fool  would  quit  his  singin' 

"Annie  Laurie"  out  on  guard! 

Oh,  I  just  kaint  stand  it  thinkin' 

Of  the  things  that  happened  then. 
Good  old  times,  and  all  apast  me! 

Never  seem  to  come  again — 
My  turn?     Sure.     I'll  come  a-runnin'. 

Warm  me  up  some  coffee,  pard — 
But  I'll  stop  that  Jim  from  singin' 

"Annie  Laurie"  out  on  guard. 


18 


FROM  TOWN 

We're  the  children  of  the  open  and  we  hate  the 

haunts  o'  men, 

But  we  had  to  come  to  town  to  get  the  mail. 
And  we're  ridin'  home  at  daybreak — 'cause  the  air 

is  cooler  then — 

All  'cept  one  of  us  that  stopped  behind  in  jail. 
Shorty's  nose  won't  bear  paradin',  Bill's  off  eye  is 

darkly  fadin', 

All  our  toilets  show  a  touch  of  disarray, 
For  we  found  that  city  life  is  a  constant  round  of 

strife 
And  we  ain't  the  breed  for  shyin'  from  a  fray. 

Chant   your  warwhoop,   pardners   dear,   while   the 

east  turns  pale  with  fear 
And  the  chaparral  is  tremblin'  all  aroun' 
For  we're  wicked  to  the  marrer;  we're  a  midnight 

dream  of  terror 
When  we're  ridin'  up  the  rocky  trail  from  town! 

We  acquired   our  hasty   temper   from  our  friend, 

the  centipede. 
From   the   rattlesnake  we  learnt   to  guard   our 

rights. 
We  have  gathered  fightin'  pointers  from  the  famous 

bronco  steed 

And  the  bobcat  teached  us  reppertee  that  bites. 
So  when  some  high-collared  herrin'  jeered  the  garb 
that  I  was  wearin' 
19 


'Twas't  long  till  we  had  got  where  talkin'  ends, 

And  he  et  his  illbred  chat,  with  a  sauce  of  derby  hat, 

While  my  merry  pardners  entertained  his  friends. 

Sing  'er  out,  my  buckeroos !   Let  the  desert  hear  the 

news. 
Tell  the  stars  the  way  we  rubbed  the  haughty 

down. 
We're  the  fiercest  wolves  a-prowlin'  and  it's  just 

our  night  for  howlin' 
When  we're  ridin'  up  the  rocky  trail  from  town. 

Since  the  days  that  Lot  and  Abram  split  the  Jordan 

range  in  halves, 

Just  to  fix  it  so  their  punchers  wouldn't  fight, 
Since  old  Jacob  skinned  his  dad-in-law  for  six  years' 

crop  of  calves 

And  then  hit  the  trail  for  Canaan  in  the  night, 
There  has  been  a  taste  for  battle  'mong  the  men 

that  follow  cattle 

And  a  love  of  doin'  things  that's  wild  and  strange, 
And  the  warmth  of  Laban's  words  when  he  missed 

his  speckled  herds 
Still  is  useful  in  the  language  of  the. range. 

Sing   'er  out,    my   bold   coyotes!   leather   fists   and 

leather  throats, 

For  we  wear  the  brand  of  Ishm'el  like  a  crown. 
We're  the  sons  o'  desolation,  we're  the  outlaws  of 

creation — 

Ee — yow!  a-ridin'  up  the  rocky  trail  from  town! 
20 


A  COWBOY'S  PRAYER 

(Written  for  Mother) 

Oh  Lord.    I've  never  lived  where  churches  grow. 

I  love  creation  better  as  it  stood 
That  day  You  finished  it  so  long  ago 

And  looked  upon  Your  work  and  called  it  good. 
I  know  that  others  find  You  in  the  light 

That's  sifted  down  through  tinted  window  panes, 
And  yet  I  seem  to  feel  You  near  tonight 

In  this  dim,  quiet  starlight  on  the  plains. 

I  thank  You,  Lord,  that  I  am  placed  so  well, 

That  You  have  made  my  freedom  so  complete; 
That  I'm  no  slave  of  whistle,  clock  or  bell, 

Nor  weak-eyed  prisoner  of  wall  and  street. 
Just  let  me  live  my  life  as  I've  begun 

And  give  me  work  that's  open  to  the  sky; 
Make  me  a  pardner  of  the  wind  and  sun, 

And  I  won't  ask  a  life  that's  soft  or  high. 

Let  me  be  easy  on  the  man  that's  down; 

Let  me  be  square  and  generous  with  all. 
I'm  careless  sometimes,  Lord,  when  I'm  in  town, 

But  never  let  'em  say  I'm  mean  Or  small! 
Make  me  as  big  and  open  as  the  plains, 

As  honest  as  the  hawse  between  my  knees, 
Clean  as  the  wind  that  blows  behind  the  rains, 

Free  as  the  hawk  that  circles  down  the  breeze! 

21 


Forgive  me,  Lord,  if  sometimes  I  forget. 

You  know  about  the  reasons  that  are  hid. 
You  understand  the  things  that  gall  and  fret; 

You  know  me  better  than  my  mother  did. 
Just  keep  an  eye  on  all  that's  done  and  said 

And  right  me,  sometimes,  when  I  turn  aside, 
And  guide  me  on  the  long,  dim  trail  ahead 

That  stretches  upward  toward  the  Great  Divide. 


22 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TRAIL 

The  wind  is  blowin'  cold  down  the  mountain  tips 

of  snow 

And  'cross  the  ranges  layin'  brown  and  dead; 
It's  cryin'  through  the  valley  trees  that  wear  the 

mistletoe 

And  mournin'  with  the  gray  clouds  overhead. 
Yet  it's  sweet  with  the  beat  of  my  little  hawse's  feet 

And  I  whistle  like  the  air  was  warm  and  blue, 
For  I'm  ridin'  up  the  Christmas  trail  to  you, 

Old  folks, 
I'm  a-ridin'  up  the  Christmas  trail  to  you. 

Oh,  mebbe  it  was  good  when  the  whinny  of  the 

Spring 

Had  wheedled  me  to  hoppin'  of  the  bars, 
And  livin'  in  the  shadow  of  a  sailin'  buzzard's  wing 

And  sleepin'  underneath  a  roof  of  stars. 
But   the  bright  campfire  light  only   dances  for   a 

night, 

While  the  home-fire  burns  forever  clear  and  true, 
So  'round  the  year  I  circle  back  to  you, 

Old  folks, 
'Round  the  rovin'  year  I  circle  back  to  you. 


Oh,  mebbe  it  was  good  when  the  reckless  Summer 

sun 

Had  shot  a  charge  of  fire  through  my  veins, 
And  I  milled  around  the  whiskey  and  the  fightin' 

and  the  fun 
'Mong    the    other    mav'ricks    drifted    from    the 

plains. 
Ay!  the  pot  bubbled  hot,  while  you  reckoned  I'd 

forgot, 
And  the  devil  smacked  the  young  blood  in  his 

stew, 
Yet  I'm  lovin'  every  mile  that's  nearer  you, 

Good  folks, 
Lovin'  every  blessed  mile  that's  nearer  you. 

Oh,  mebbe  it  was  good  at  the  roundup  in  the  Fall 

When  the  clouds  of  bawlin'  dust  before  us  ran, 

And  the  pride  of  rope  and  saddle  was  a-drivin'  of 

us  all 

To  a  stretch  of  nerve  and  muscle,  man  and  man. 
But  the  pride  sort  of  died  when  the  man  got  weary 

eyed; 
'Twas   a  sleepy  boy  that   rode   the   night-guard 

through, 
And  he  dreamed  himself  along  a  trail  to  you, 

Old  folks, 
Dreamed  himself  along  a  happy  trail  to  you. 


24 


The  coyote's  Winter  howl  cuts  the  dusk  behind  the 

hill, 

But  the  ranch's  shinin'  window  I  kin  see, 
And  though  I  don't  deserve  it  and,  I  reckon,  never 

will, 

There'll  be  room  beside  the  fire  kep'  for  me. 
Skimp  my  plate  'cause  I'm  late.     Let  me  hit  the  old 

kid  gait, 

For  tonight  I'm  stumblin'  tired  of  the  new 
And  I'm  ridin'  up  the  Christmas  trail  to  you, 

Old  folks, 
I'm  a-ridin'  up  the  Christmas  trail  to  you. 


A  BORDER  AFFAIR 

Spanish  is  the  lovin'  tongue, 

Soft  as  music,  light  as  spray. 
'Twas  a  girl  I  learnt  it  from, 

Livin'  down  Sonora  way. 
I  don't  look  much  like  a  lover, 
Yet  I  say  her  love  words  over 

Often  when  I'm  all  alone — 

"Mi  amor,  mi  corazon." 

Nights  when  she  knew  where  I'd  ride 

She  would  listen  for  my  spurs, 
Fling  the  big  door  open  wide, 

Raise  them  laughin'  eyes  of  hers 
And  my  heart  would  nigh  stop  beatin' 
When  I  heard  her  tender  greetin', 

Whispered  soft  for  me  alone — 

"Mi  amor!  mi  corazon!" 

Moonlight  in  the  patio, 

Old  Senora  noddin'  near, 
Me  and  Juana  talkin'  low 

So  the  Madre  couldn't  hear — 
How  those  hours  would  go  a-flyin'! 
And  too  soon  I'd  hear  her  sighin' 

In  her  little  sorry  tone — 

"Adios,  mi  corazon!" 


26 


But  one  time  I  had  to  fly 

For  a  foolish  gamblin'  fight, 
And  we  said  a  swift  goodbye 

In  that  black,  unlucky  night. 
When  I'd  loosed  her  arms  from  clingin' 
With  her  words  the  hoofs  kep'  ringin' 

As  I  galloped  north  alone — 

"Adios,  mi  corazon!" 

Never  seen  her  since  that  night. 

I  kaint  cross  the  Line,  you  know. 
She  was  Mex  and  I  was  white; 

Like  as  not  it's  better  so. 
Yet  I've  always  sort  of  missed  her 
Since  that  last  wild  night  I  kissed  her, 

Left  her  heart  and  lost  my  own — 

"Adios,  mi  corazon!" 


THE  BUNK-HOUSE  ORCHESTRA 

Wrangle  up  your  mouth-harps,  drag  your  banjo  out, 
Tune  your  old  guitarra  till  she  twangs  right  stout, 
For  the  snow  is  on  the  mountains  and  the  wind  is 

on  the  plain, 
But  we'll  cut  the  chimney's  moanin'  with  a  livelier 

refrain. 

Shinin'  Jdobe  fireplace,  shadows  on  the  wall 

(See  old  Shorty's  friv'lous  toes  a-twitchin    at  the 

call:] 
It's  the  best  grand  high  that  there  is  within  the 

law 
When  seven  jolly  punchers  tackle  "Turkey  in  the 

Straw." 

Freezy  was  the  day's  ride,  lengthy  was  the  trail, 
Ev'ry  steer  was  haughty  with  a  high  arched  tail, 
But  we  held  'em  and  we  shoved  'em,  for  our  longin' 

hearts  were  tried 
By  a  yearnin"  for  tobacker  and  our  dear  fireside. 

Swing  'er  into  stop-time,  don't  you  let  ' er  droop! 
(Yoi/re  about  as  tuneful  as  a  coyote  with  the 

croup!} 
Ay,  the  cold  wind  bit  when  we  drifted  down  the 

draw, 
But  we  drifted  on  to  comfort  and  to  "Turkey  in 

the  Straw." 

28 


Snarlin'    when    the    rain    whipped,    cussin'    at    the 

ford— 

Ev'ry  mile  of  twenty  was  a  long  discord, 
But  the  night  is  brimmin'  music  and  its  glory  is 

complete 
When  the  eye  is  razzle-dazzled  by  the  flip  o'  Shorty's 

feet! 

Snappy  for  the  dance,  now,  till  she  up  and  shoots! 
(Don't  he  beat  the  devil's  wife  for  jiggin    in  'is 

boots?} 
Shorty  got  throwed  high  and  we  laughed  till  he 

was  raw, 
But  tonight  he's  done  forgot  it  prancin   "Turkey 

in  the  Straw." 

Rainy  dark  or  firelight,  bacon  rind  or  pie, 
Livin'  is  a  luxury  that  don't  come  high; 
Oh,  be  happy  and  onruly  while  our  years  and  luck 

allow, 
For  we  all  must  die  or  marry  less  than  forty  years 

from  now! 

Lively  on  the  last  turn!  lope  'er  to  the  death! 

(Reddy's  soul  is  willin    but  he's  gettin    short  o' 
breath.} 

Ay,  the  storm  wind  sings  and  old  trouble  sucks 
his  paw 

When  we  have  an  hour  of  firelight  set  to  "Tur 
key  in  the  Straw." 
29 


THE  OUTLAW 

When  my  rope  takes  hold  on  a  two-year-old, 

By  the  foot  or  the  neck  or  the  horn, 
He  kin  plunge  and  fight  till  his  eyes  go  white 

But  I'll  throw  him  as  sure  as  you're  born. 
Though  the  taut  ropes  sing  like  a  banjo  string 

And  the  latigoes  creak  and  strain, 
Yet  I  got  no  fear  of  an  outlaw  steer 

And  I'll  tumble  him  on  the  plain. 

For  a  man  is  a  man,  but  a  steer  is  a  beast, 

And  the  man  is  the  boss  of  the  herd. 
And  each   of  the  bunch,  from   the  biggest  to 

least, 
Must  come  down  when  he  says  the  word. 

When  my  leg  swings  'cross  on  an  outlaw  hawse 

And  my  spurs  clinch  into  his  hide, 
He  kin  r'ar  and  pitch  over  hill  and  ditch, 

But  wherever  he  goes  I'll  ride. 
Let  'im  spin  and  flop  like  a  crazy  top 

Or  flit  like  a  wind-whipped  smoke, 
But  he'll  know  the  feel  of  my  rowelled  heel 

Till  he's  happy  to  own  he's  broke. 

For  a  man  is  a  man  and  a  hawse  is  a  brute, 
And  the  hawse  may  be  prince  of  his  clan 

But  he'll  bow  to  the  bit  and  the  steel-shod  boot 
And  own  that  his  boss  is  the  man. 
30 


When  the  devil  at  rest  underneath  my  vest 

Gets  up  and  begins  to  paw 
And  my  hot  tongue  strain?  at  its  bridle  reins, 

Then  I  tackle  the  real  outlaw. 
When  I  get  plumb  riled  and  my  sense  goes  wild 

And  my  temper  is  fractious  growed, 
If  he'll  hump  his  neck  just  a  triflin'  speck, 

Then  it's  dollars  to  dimes  I'm  throwed. 

For  a  man  is  a  man,  but  he's  partly  a  beast. 

He  kin  brag  till  he  makes  you  deaf, 
But  the  one  lone  brute,  from  the  west  to  the 
east, 

That  he  kaint  quite  break  is  himse'f. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BOASTFUL  BILL 

At  a  roundup  on  the  Gily, 

One  sweet  mornin'  long  ago, 
Ten  of  us  was  throwed  right  freely 

By  a  hawse  from  Idaho. 
And  we  thought  he'd  go  a-beggin' 

For  a  man  to  break  his  pride 
Till,  a-hitchin'  up  one  leggin, 

Boastful  Bill  cut  loose  and  cried — 

"I'm  a  on'ry  proposition  for  to  hurt; 

I  fulfill  my  earthly  mission  with  a  quirt; 
I  kin  ride  the  highest  liver 
'Tween  the  Gulf  and  Powder  River, 

And  I'll  break  this  thing  as  easy  as  I'd 
flirt." 

So  Bill  climbed  the  Northern  Fury 

And  they  mangled  up  the  air 
Till  a  native  of  Missouri 

Would  have  owned  his  brag  was  fair. 
Though  the  plunges  kep'  him  reelin' 

And  the  wind  it  flapped  his  shirt, 
Loud  above  the  hawse's  squealin' 

We  could  hear  our  friend  assert 

"I'm  the  one  to  take  such  rakin's  as  a  joke. 
Some  one  hand  me  up  the  rnakin's  of  a 
smoke! 

32 


//  you  think  my  fame  needs  bright'nin' 
W  y,  I'll  rope  a  streak  of  lightnin 
And  I'll  cinch  "im  up  and  spur  "im  till  he's 
broke." 

Then  one  caper  of  repulsion 

Broke  that  hawse's  back  in  two. 
Cinches  snapped  in  the  convulsion; 

Skyward  man  and  saddle  flew. 
Up  he  mounted,  never  laggin', 

While  we  watched  him  through  our  tears, 
And  his  last  thin  bit  of  braggin' 

Came  a-droppin'  to  our  ears. 

"If  you'd  ever  watched   my    habits   very 

close 
You  would  know  I've  broke  such  rabbits 

by  the  gross, 

I  have  kep'  my  talent  hidin ; 
I'm  too  good  for  earthly  ridin 
And  I'm  off  to  bust  the  lightnin  s — 
Adios!" 

Years  have  gone  since  that  ascension. 

Boastful  Bill  ain't  never  lit, 
So  we  reckon  that  he's  wrenchin' 

Some  celestial  outlaw's  bit. 
When  the  night  rain  beats  our  slickers 

And  the  wind  is  swift  and  stout 
And  the  lightnin'  flares  and  flickers, 

We  kin  sometimes  hear  him  shout — 
33 


"I'm  a  bronco-tiuistin'  wonder  on  the  fly; 

I'm  the  ridin'  son-oj  -thunder  of  the  sky. 
Hi!  you  earthlin's,  shut  your  winders 
While  we're  rippin'  clouds  to  flinders. 

If  this  blue-eyed  darlin    kicks  at  you,  you 


Stardust  on  his  chaps  and  saddle, 

Scornful  still  of  jar  and  jolt, 
He'll  come  back  some  day,  astraddle 

Of  a  bald-faced  thunderbolt. 
And  the  thin-skinned  generation 

Of  that  dim  and  distant  day 
Sure  will  stare  with  admiration 

When  they  hear  old  Boastful  say  — 

"I  was  first,  as  old  rawhiders  all  confessed. 
Now  I'm  last  of  all  rough  riders,  and  the 

best. 

Huh!  you  soft  and  dainty  floaters, 
With  your  a'roplanes  and  motors  — 
Huh!  are  you  the  great  grandchildren  of 
the  West!" 


34 


THE  TIED  MAVERICK 

Lay  on  the  iron !  the  tie  holds  fast 

And  my  wild  record  closes. 
This  maverick  is  down  at  last 

Just  roped  and  tied  with  roses. 
And  one  small  girl's  to  blame  for  it, 
Yet  I  don't  fight  with  shame  for  it — 
Lay  on  the  iron;  I'm  game  for  it, 
Just  roped  and  tied  with  roses. 

I  loped  among  the  wildest  band 

Of  saddle-hatin'  winners — 
Gay  colts  that  never  felt  a  brand 

And  scarred  old  outlaw  sinners. 
The  wind  was  rein  and  guide  to  us; 
The  world  was  pasture  wide  to  us 
And  our  wild  name  was  pride  to  us — 

High  headed  bronco  sinners! 

So,  loose  and  light  we  raced  and  fought 

And  every  range  we  tasted, 
But  now,  since  I'm  corralled  and  caught, 

I  know  them  days  were  wasted. 
From  now,  the  all-day  gait  for  me, 
The  trail  that's  hard  but  straight  for  me, 
For  down  that  trail,  who'll  wait  for  me ! 

Ay !  them  old  days  were  wasted ! 


35 


But  though  I'm  broke,  I'll  never  be 

A  saddle-marked  old  groaner, 
For  never  worthless  bronc  like  me 

Got  such  a  gentle  owner. 
There  could  be  colt  days  glad  as  mine 
Or  outlaw  runs  as  mad  as  mine 
Or  rope-flung  falls  as  bad  as  mine, 
But  never  such  an  owner. 

Lay  on  the  iron,  and  lay  it  red! 

I'll  take  it  kind  and  clever. 
Who  wouldn't  hold  a  prouder  head 

To  wear  that  mark  forever? 
I'll  never  break  and  stray  from  her; 
I'd  starve  and  die  away  from  her. 
Lay  on  the  iron — it's  play  from  her — 
•And  brand  me  hers  forever! 


A  ROUNDUP  LULLABY 

Desert  blue  and  silver  in  the  still  moonshine, 

Coyote  yappin'  lazy  on  the  hill, 
Sleepy  winks  of  lightnin'  down  the  far  skyline, 

Time  for  millin'  cattle  to  be  still. 

So — o,  now,  the  lightnin  s  far  away, 

The  coyote's  nothin'  skeery ; 

He's  singin    to  his  dearie — 
Hee — ya,  tarnmalalleday ! 

Settle  down,  you  cattle,  till  the  mornin  . 

Nothin'  out  the  hazy  range  that  you  folks  need, 
Nothin'  we  kin  see  to  take  your  eye. 

Yet  we  got  to  watch  you  or  you'd  all  stampede, 
Plungin'  down  some  'royo  bank  to  die. 

So — o,  now,  for  still  the  shadows  stay; 

The  moon  is  slow  and  steady ; 

The  sun  comes  when  he's  ready. 
Hee — ya,  tammalalleday ! 

No  use  runnin'  out  to  meet  the  mornin. 

Cows  and  men  are  foolish  when  the  light  grows  dim, 

Dreamin'  of  a  land  too  far  to  see. 
There,  you  dream,  is  wavin'  grass  and  streams  that 
brim 

And  it  often  seems  the  same  to  me. 


37 


So — o,  now,  for  dreams  they  never  pay. 
The  dust  it  keeps  us  blinkin', 
We're  seven  miles  from  drinkin  . 

Hee — ya,  tammalalleday ! 

But  we  got  to  stand  it  till  the  mornin  . 

Mostly    it's    a    moonlight   world    our    trail    winds 
through. 

Kaint  see  much  beyond  our  saddle  horns. 
Always  far  away  is  misty  silver-blue; 

Always  underfoot  it's  rocks  and  thorns. 

So — o,  now.     It  must  be  this  away — 
The  lonesome  owl  a-callin  , 
The  mournful  coyote  squallin. 

Hee — ya,  tammalalleday! 

Mocking-birds  don's  sing  until  the  mornin '. 

Always  seein'  'wayoff  dreams  of  silver-blue, 
Always  feelin'  thorns  that  slab  and  sting. 

Yet  stampedin'  never  made  a  dream  come  true, 
So  I  ride  around  myself  and  sing. 

So — o,  now,  a  man  has  got  to  stay, 

A-likin    or  a-hatin  , 

But  workin    on  and  waitin. 
Hee — ya,  tammalalleday! 

All  of  us  are  waitin'  for  the  mornin'. 


THE  TRAIL  O'  LOVE 

My  love  was  swift  and  slender 

As  an  antelope  at  play, 
And  her  eyes  were  gray  and  tender 

As  the  east  at  break  o'  day, 
And  I  sure  was  shaky  hearted 

And  her  flower  face  was  pale 
On  that  silver  night  we  parted, 

When  I  sang  along  the  trail: 

Forever — forever — 

Oh,  moon  above  the  pine, 
Like  the  matin'  birds  in  Springtime, 

I  will  twitter  while  you  shine. 
Rich  as  ore  with  gold  a-glowin  , 
Sweet  as  sparklin    springs  a-ftowin  , 
Strong  as  redwoods  ever  growin , 
So  will  be  this  love  o'  mine. 

I  rode  across  the  river 

And  beyond  the  far  divide, 
Till  the  echo  of  "forever" 

Staggered  faint  behind  and  died. 
For  the  long  trail  smiled   and   beckoned 

And  the  free  wind  blowed  so  sweet, 
That  life's  gayest  tune,  I  reckoned, 

Was  my  hawse's  ringin'  feet. 


39 


Forever — forever — 

Oh,  stars,  look  down  and  sigh, 
For  a  poison  spring  will  sparkle 

And  the  trustin   drinker  die. 
And  a  rovin   bird  will  twitter 

And  a  worthless  rock  will  glitter 
And  the  maiden's  love  is  bitter 

When  the  man's  is  proved  a  lie. 

Last  the  rover's  circle  guidin' 
Brought  me  where  I  used  to  be, 

And  I  met  her,  gaily  ridin' 
With  a  smarter  man  than  me. 

Then  I  raised  my  dusty  cover 

But  she  didn't  see  nor  hear, 

So  I  hummed  the  old  tune  over, 
Laughin'  in  my  hawse's  ear: 

Forever — forever — 

Oh,  sun,  look  down  and  smile 
If  the  snow  flake  specks  the  desert 

Or  the  yucca  blooms  awhile. 
Ay!  what  gloom  the  mountain  covers 
Where  the  driftin    cloud  shade  hovers! 
Ay!  the  trail  o'  parted  lovers, 

Where  "j or  ever"  lasts  a  mile! 


40 


BACHIN' 

Our  lives  are  hid;  our  trails  are  strange; 

We're  scattered  through  the  West 
In  canyon  cool,  on  blistered  range 

Or  windy  mountain  crest. 
Wherever  Nature  drops  her  ears 

And  bares  her  claws  to  scratch, 
From  Yuma  to  the  north  frontiers, 

You'll  likely  find  the  bach', 
You  will, 

The  shy  and  sober  bach'! 

Our  days  are  sun  and  storm  and  mist, 

The  same  as  any  life, 
Except  that  in  our  trouble  list 

We  never  count  a  wife. 
Each  has  a  reason  why  he's  lone, 

But  keeps  it  'neath  his  hat; 
Or,  if  he's  got  to  tell  some  one, 

Confides  it  to  his  cat, 
He  does, 

Just  tells  it  to  his  cat. 

We're  young  or  old  or  slow  or  fast, 

But  all  plumb  versatyle. 
The  mighty  bach'  that  fires  the  blast 

Kin  serve  up  beans  in  style. 
The  bach'  that  ropes  the  plungin'  cows 


Kin  mix  the  biscuits  true — 
We  earn  our  grub  by  drippin'  brows 
And  cook  it  by  'em  too, 

We   do, 
We  cook  it  by  'em  too. 

We  like  to  breathe  unbranded  air, 

Be  free  of  foot  and  mind, 
And  go  or  stay,  or  sing  or  swear, 

Whichever  we're  inclined. 
An  appetite,  a  conscience  clear, 

A  pipe  that's  rich  and  old 
Are  loves  that  always  bless  and  cheer 

And  never  cry  nor  scold, 
They  don't, 

They  never  cry  nor  scold. 

Old  Adam  bached  some  ages  back 

And  smoked  his  pipe  so  free, 
A-loafin'  in  a  palm-leaf  shack 

Beneath  a  mango  tree. 
He'd  best  have  stuck  to  bachin'  ways, 

And  scripture  proves  the  same, 
For  Adam's  only  happy  days 

Was  'fore  the  woman  came, 
They  was, 

All  'fore  the  woman  came. 


THE  GLORY  TRAIL 

'Way  high  up  the  Mogollons, 

Among  the  mountain  tops, 
A  lion  cleaned  a  yearlin's  bones 

And  licked  his  thankful  chops, 
When  on  the  picture  who  should  ride, 

A-trippin'  down  a  slope, 
But  High-Chin  Bob,  with  sinful  pride 

And  mav'rick-hungry  rope. 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  me,"  says  he, 
"And  fame's  unfadin   flowers! 

All  meddlin    hands  are  far  away; 

I  ride  my  good  top-hawse  today 

And  I'm  top-rope  of  the  Lazy  J — 
Hi!  kitty  cat,  you're  ours!" 

That  lion  licked  his  paw  so  brown 

And  dreamed  soft  dreams  of  veal — 
And  then  the  circlin'  loop  sung  down 

And  roped  him  'round  his  meal. 
He  yowled  quick  fury  to  the  world 

Till  all  the  hills  yelled  back; 
The  top-hawse  gave  a  snort  and  whirled 

And  Bob  caught  up  the  slack. 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  me"  laughs  he. 
"We  hit  the  glory  trail. 


43 


No  human  man  as  I  have  read 
Darst  loop  a  ragin'  lion's  head, 
Nor  ever  hawse  could  drag  one  dead 
Until  we  told  the  tale." 

'Way  high  up  the  Mogollons 

That  top-hawse  done  his  best, 
Through  whippin'  brush  and  rattlin'  stones, 

From  canyon-floor  to  crest. 
But  ever  when  Bob  turned  and  hoped 

A  limp  remains  to  find, 
A  red-eyed  lion,  belly  roped 

But  healthy,  loped  behind. 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  me,"  grunts  he. 

"This  glory  trail  is  rough, 
Yet  even  till  the  Judgment  Morn 
I'll  keep  this  dally  'round  the  horn, 
For  never  any  hero  born 

Could  stoop  to  holler:  'Nuff!'  " 

Three  suns  had  rode  their  circle  home 

Beyond  the  desert's  rim, 
And  turned  their  star-herds  loose  to  roam 

The  ranges  high  and  dim; 
Yet  up  and  down  and  'round  and  'cross 

Bob  pounded,  weak  and  wan, 
For  pride  still  glued  him  to  his  hawse 

And  glory  drove  him  on. 


44 


"Oh,  glory  be  to  me"  sighs  he. 

"He  kaint  be  drug  to  death, 
But  now  I  know  beyond  a  doubt 
Them  heroes  I  have  read  about 
Was  only  fools  that  stuck  it  out 

To  end  of  mortal  breath." 

'Way  high  up  the  Mogollons 

A  prospect  man  did  swear 
That  moon  dreams  melted  down  his  bones 

And  hoisted  up  his  hair: 
A  ribby  cow-hawse  thundered  by, 

A  lion  trailed  along, 
A  rider,  ga'nt  but  chin  on  high, 

Yelled  out  a  crazy  song. 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  me!"  cries  he, 

"And  to  my  noble  noose! 
Oh,  stranger,  tell  my  pards  below 
I  took  a  r ampin'  dream  in  tow, 
And  if  I  never  lay  him  low, 

I'll  never  turn  him  loose!" 


45 


BACON 

You're  salty  and  greasy  and  smoky  as  sin 

But  of  all  grub  we  love  you  the  best. 
You  stuck  to  us  closer  than  nighest  of  kin 

And  helped  us  win  out  in  the  West. 
You  froze  with  us  up  on  the  Laramie  trail  ; 

You  sweat  with  us  down  at  Tucson; 
When  Injun  was  painted  and  white  man  was  pale 
You  nerved  us  to  grip  our  last  chance  by  the  tail 

And  load  up  our  Colts  and  hang  on. 

You've  sizzled  by  mountain  and  mesa  and  plain 

Over  campfires  of  sagebrush  and  oak; 
The  breezes  that  blow  from  the  Platte  to  the  main 

Have  carried  your  savory  smoke. 
You're  friendly  to  miner  or  puncher  or  priest; 

You're  as  good  in  December  as  May; 
You  always  came  in  when  the  fresh  meat  had  ceased 
And  the  rough  course  of  empire  to  westward  was 
greased 

By  the  bacon  we  fried  on  the  way. 

We've  said  that  you  weren't  fit  for  white  men  to  eat 

And  your  virtues  we  often  forget. 
We've  called  you  by  names  that  I  darsn't  repeat, 

But  we  love  you  and  swear  by  you  yet. 
Here's  to  you,  old  bacon,  fat,  lean  streak  and  rin', 

All  the  westerners  join  in  the  toast, 
From  mesquite  and  yucca  to  sagebrush  and  pine, 
From  Canada  down  to  the  Mexican  Line, 

From  Omaha  out  to  the  coast! 
46 


THE  LOST  PARDNER 

I  ride  alone  and  hate  the  boys  I  meet. 

Today,  some  way,  their  laughin'  hurts  me  so. 
I  hate  the  mockin'-birds  in  the  mesquite — 

And  yet  I  liked  'em  just  a  week  ago. 
I  hate  the  steady  sun  that  glares,  and  glares! 

The  bird  songs  make  me  sore. 
I  seem  the  only  thing  on  earth  that  cares 

'Cause  Al  ain't  here  no  more! 

'Twas  just  a  stumblin'  hawse,  a  tangled  spur — 

And,  when  I  raised  him  up  so  limp  and  weak, 
One  look  before  his  eyes  begun  to  blur 

And  then — the  blood  that  wouldn't  let  'im  speak! 
And  him  so  strong,  and  yet  so  quick  he  died, 

And  after  year  on  year 
When  we  had  always  trailed  it  side  by  side, 

He  went — and  left  me  here! 

We  loved  each  other  in  the  way  men  do 

And  never  spoke  about  it,  Al  and  me, 
But  we  both  knowed,  and  knowin'  it  so  true 

Was  more  than  any  woman's  kiss  could  be. 
We  knowed — and  if  the  way  was  smooth  or  rough, 

The  weather  shine  or  pour, 
While  I  had  him  the  rest  seemed  good  enough — 

But  he  ain't  here  no  more! 


47 


What  is  there  out  beyond  the  last  divide? 

Seems  like  that  country  must  be  cold  and  dim. 
He'd  miss  this  sunny  range  he  used  to  ride, 

And  he'd  miss  me,  the  same  as  I  do  him. 
It's  no  use  thinkin' — all  I'd  think  or  say 

Could  never  make  it  clear. 
Out  that  dim  trail  that  only  leads  one  way 

He's  gone — and  left  me  here! 

The  range  is  empty  and  the  trails  are  blind, 

And  I  don't  seem  but  half  myself  today. 
I  wait  to  hear  him  ridin'  up  behind 

And  feel  his  knee  rub  mine  the  good  old  way. 
He's  dead — and  what  that  means  no  man  kin  tell. 

Some  call  it  "gone  before." 
Where  ?     I  don't  know,  but  God !     I  know  so  well 

That  he  ain't  here  no  more! 


GOD'S  RESERVES 

One  time,  'way  back  where  the  year  marks  fade, 
God  said:  "I  see  I  must  lose  my  West, 

The  prettiest  part  of  the  world  I  made, 
The  place  where  I've  always  come  to  rest, 

For  the  White  Man  grows  till  he  fights  for  bread 

And  he  begs  and  prays  for  a  chance  to  spread. 

"Yet  I  won't  give  all  of  my  last  retreat; 

I'll  help  him  to  fight  his  long  trail  through, 
But  I'll  keep  some  land  from  his  field  and  street 

The  way  that  it  was  when  the  world  was  new. 
He'll  cry  for  it  all,  for  that's  his  way, 
And  yet  he  may  understand  some  day." 

And  so,   from  the  painted  Bad  Lands,   'way 
To  the  sun-beat  home  of  the  'Pache  kin, 

God  stripped  some  places  to  sand  and  clay 

And  dried  up  the  beds  where  the  streams  had 
been. 

He  marked  His  reserves  with  these  plain  signs 

And  stationed  His  rangers  to  guard  the  lines. 

Then  the  White  Man  came,  as  the  East  growed  old, 
And  blazed  his  trail  with  the  wreck  of  war. 

He  riled  the  rivers  to  hunt  for  gold 
And  found  the  stuff  he  was  lookin'  for; 

Then  he  trampled  the  Injun  trails  to  ruts 

And  gashed  through  the  hills  with  railroad  cuts. 
49 


He  flung  out  his  barb-wire  fences  wide 

And  plowed  up  the  ground  where  the  grass  was 
high. 

He  stripped  off  the  trees  from  the  mountain  side 
And  ground  out  his  ore  where  the  streams  run  by, 

Till  last  came  the  cities,  with  smoke  and  roar, 

And  the  White  Man  was  feelin'  at  home  once  more. 

But  Barrenness,  Loneliness,  suchlike  things 

That  gall  and  grate  on  the  White  Man's  nerves, 

Was  the  rangers  that  camped  by  the  bitter  springs 
And  guarded  the  lines  of  God's  reserves. 

So  the  folks  all  shy  from  the  desert  land, 

'Cept  mebbe  a  few  that  kin  understand. 

There  the  world's  the  same  as  the  day  'twas  new, 
With  the  land  as  clean  as  the  smokeless  sky 

And  never  a  noise  as  the  years  have  flew, 

But  the  sound  of  the  warm  wind  driftin'  by; 

And  there,  alone,  with  the  man's  world  far, 

There's  a  chance  to  think  who  you  really  are. 

And  over  the  reach  of  the  desert  bare, 

When  the  sun  drops  low  and  the  day  wind  stills, 

Sometimes  you  kin  almost  see  Him  there, 
As  He  sits  alone  on  the  blue-gray  hills, 

A-thinkin'  of  things  that's  beyond  our  ken 

And  restin'  Himself  from  the  noise  of  men. 


THE  MARRIED  MAN 

There's  an  old  pard  of  mine  that  sits  by  his  door 

And  watches  the  evenin'  skies. 
He's  sat  there  a  thousand  of  evenin's  before 

And  I  reckon  he  will  till  he  dies. 
El  pobre!    I  reckon  he  will  till  he  dies, 

And  hear  through  the  dim,  quiet  air 
Far  cattle  that  call  and  the  crickets  that  cheep 
And  his  woman  a-singin'  a  kid  to  sleep 

And  the  creak  of  her  rockabye  chair. 

Once  we  made  camp  where  the  last  light  would  fail 

And  the  east  wasn't  white  till  we'd  start, 
But  now  he  is  deaf  to  the  call  of  the  trail 

And  the  song  of  the  restless  heart. 
El  pobre!  the  song  of  the  restless  heart 

That  you  hear  in  the  wind  from  the  dawn! 
He's  left  it,  with  all  the  good,  free-footed  things, 
For  a  slow  little  song  that  a  tired  woman  sings 

And  a  smoke  when  his  dry  day  is  gone. 

I've  rode  in  and  told  him  of  lands  that  were  strange, 
Where  I'd  drifted  from  glory  to  dread. 

He'd  tell  me  the  news  of  his  little  old  range 
And  the  cute  things  his  kids  had  said! 

El  pobre !  the  cute  things  his  kids  had  said ! 

NOTE. — "El  pobre,"  Spanish,  "Poor  fellow." 
51 


And  the  way  six-year  Billy  could  ride! 
And  the  dark  would  creep  in  from  the  gray  chap 
arral 
And  the  woman  would  hum,  while  I  pitied  my  pal 

And  thought  of  him  like  he  had  died. 

He  rides  in  old  circles  and  looks  at  old  sights 

And  his  life  is  as  flat  as  a  pond. 
He  loves  the  old  skyline  he  watches  of  nights 

And  he  don't  seem  to  care  for  beyond. ' 
El  pobre!  he  don't  seem  to  dream  of  beyond, 

Nor  the  room  he  could  find,  there,  for  joy. 
"Ain't  you  ever  oneasy?"  says  I  one  day. 
But  he  only  just  smiled  in  a  pityin'  way 

While  he  braided  a  quirt  for  his  boy. 

He  preaches  that  I  orter  fold  up  my  wings 

And  that  even  wild  geese  find  a  nest. 
That  "woman"  and  "wimmen"  are  different  things 

And  a  saddle  nap  isn't  a  rest. 
El  pobre!  he's  more  for  the  shade  and  the  rest 

And  he's  less  for  the  wind  and  the  fight, 
Yet  out  in  strange  hills,  when  the  blue  shadows  rise 
And  I'm  tired  from  the  wind  and  the  sun  in  my 
eyes, 

I  wonder,  sometimes,  if  he's  right. 


I've  courted  the  wind  and  I've  followed  her  free 

From  the  snows  that  the  low  stars  have  kissed 
To  the  heave  and  the  dip  of  the  wavy  old  sea, 

Yet  I  reckon  there's  somethin'  I've  missed. 
El  pobre!    Yes,  mebbe  there's  somethin'  I've  missed, 

And  it  mebbe  is  more  than  I've  won — 
Just  a  door  that's  my  own,  while  the  cool  shadows 

creep, 
And  a  woman  a-singin'  my  kid  to  sleep 

When  I'm  tired  from  the  wind  and  the  sun. 


53 


THE  OLD  COW  MAN 

I  rode  across  a  valley  range 

I  hadn't  seen  for  years. 
The  trail  was  all  so  spoilt  and  strange 

It  nearly  fetched  the  tears. 
I  had  to  let  ten  fences  down 

(The  fussy  lanes  ran  wrong) 
And  each  new  line  would  make  me  frown 

And  hum  a  mournin'  song. 

Oh,  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak! 

Hear  'em  stretchin   of  the  wire! 
The  nester  brand  is  on  the  land; 

I  reckon  I'll  retire. 
While  progress  toots  her  brassy  horn 

And  makes  her  motor  buzz, 
I  thank  the  Lord  I  wasn't  born 

No  later  than  I  was! 

'Twas  good  to  live  when  all  the  sod, 

Without  no  fence  nor  fuss, 
Belonged  in  pardnership  to  God, 

The  Gover'ment  and  us. 
With  skyline  bounds  from  east  to  west 

And  room  to  go  and  come, 
I  loved  my  fellow  man  the  best 

When  he  was  scattered  some. 


54 


•     ., 
"^  "• 

R 


Oh,  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak! 

Close  and  closer  cramps  the  wire. 
There's  hardly  play  to  back  away1 

And  call  a  man  a  liar. 
Their  house  has  locks  on  every  door; 

Their  land  is  in  a  crate. 
These  ain't  the  plains  of  God  no  more, 

They're  only  real  estate. 

There's  land  where  yet  no  ditchers  dig 

Nor  cranks  experiment; 
It's  only  lovely,  free  and  big 

And  isn't  worth  a  cent. 
I  pray  that  them  who  come  to  spoil 

May  wait  till  I  am  dead 
Before  they  foul  that  blessed  soil 

With  fence  and  cabbage  head. 

Yet  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak! 

Far  and  farther  crawls  the  wire. 
To  crowd  and  pinch  another  inch 

Is  all  their  heart's  desire. 
The  world  is  overstocked  with  men 

And  some  will  see  the  day 
When  each  must  keep  his  little  pen, 

But  I'll  be  far  away. 


55 


When  my  old  soul  hunts  range  and  rest 

Beyond  the  last  divide, 
Just  plant  me  in  some  stretch  of  West 

That's  sunny,  lone  and  wide. 
Let  cattle  rub  my  tombstone  down 

And  coyotes  mourn  their  kin, 
Let  hawses  paw  and  tromp  the  moun' 

But  don't  you  fence  it  in! 

Oh,  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak! 

And  they  pen  the  land  with  wire. 
They  figure  fence  and  copper  cents 

Where  we  laughed  'round  the  fire. 
Job  cussed  his  birthday,  night  and  morn, 

In  his  old  land  of  \]z, 
But  I'm  just  glad  I  ivasn't  born 

No  later  than  I  was! 


THE  PLAINSMEN 

Men  of  the  older,  gentler  soil, 

Loving  the  things  that  their  fathers  wrought — 
Worn  old  fields  of  their  fathers'  toil, 

Scarred  old  hills  where  their  fathers  fought — 
Loving  their  land  for  each  ancient  trace, 
Like  a  mother  dear  for  her  wrinkled  face, 

Such  as  they  never  can  understand 

The  way  we  have  loved  you,  young,  young  land ! 

Born  of  a  free,  world-wandering  race, 
Little  we  yearned  o'er  an  oft-turned  sod. 

What  did  we  care  for  the  fathers'  place, 
Having  ours  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God? 

Who  feared  the  strangeness  or  wiles  of  you 

When  from  the  unreckoned  miles  of  you, 
Thrilling  the  wind  with  a  sweet  command, 
Youth  unto  youth  called,  young,  young  land? 

North,  where  the  hurrying  seasons  changed 

Over  great  gray  plains  where  the  trails  lay  long, 

Free  as  the  sweeping  Chinook  we  ranged, 
Setting  our  days  to  a  saddle  song. 

Through  the  icy  challenge  you  flung  to  us, 

Through  your  shy  Spring  kisses  that  clung  to  us, 
Following  far  as  the  rainbow  spanned, 
Fiercely  we  wooed  you,  young,  young  land ! 


57 


South,  where  the  sullen  black  mountains  guard 
Limitless,  shimmering  lands  of  the  sun, 

Over  blinding  trails  where  the  hoofs  rang  hard, 
Laughing  or  cursing,  we  rode  and  won. 

Drunk  with  the  virgin  white  fire  of  you, 

Hotter  than  thirst  was  desire  of  you ; 

Straight  in  our  faces  you  burned  your  brand, 
Marking  your  chosen  ones,  young,  young  land. 

When  did  we  long  for  the  sheltered  gloom 
Of  the  older  game  with  its  cautious  odds? 

Gloried  we  always  in  sun  and  room, 

Spending  our  strength  like  the  younger  gods. 

By  the  wild  sweet  ardor  that  ran  in  us, 

By  the  pain  that  tested  the  man  in  us, 

By  the  shadowy  springs  and  the  glaring  sand, 
You  were  our  true-love,  young,  young  land. 

When  the  last  free  trail  is  a  prim,  fenced  lane 
And  our  graves  grow  weeds  through   forgetful 
Mays, 

Richer  and  statelier  then  you'll  reign, 

Mother  of  men  whom  the  world  will  praise. 

And  your  sons  will  love  you  and  sigh  for  you, 

Labor  and  battle  and  die  for  you, 

But  never  the  fondest  will  understand 

The  way  we  have  loved  you,  young,  young  land. 


THE  WESTERNER 

My  fathers  sleep  on  the  sunrise  plains, 

And  each  one  sleeps  alone. 
Their  trails  may  dim  to  the  grass  and  rains, 

For  I  choose  to  make  my  own. 
I  lay  proud  claim  to  their  blood  and  name, 

But  I  lean  on  no  dead  kin  ; 
My  name  is  mine,  for  the  praise  or  scorn, 
And  the  world  began  when  I  was  born 

And  the  world  is  mine  to  win. 

They  built  high  towns  on  their  old  log  sills, 

Where  the  great,  slow  rivers  gleamed, 
But  with  new,  live  rock  from  the  savage  hills 

I'll  build  as  they  only  dreamed. 
The  smoke  scarce  dies  where  the  trail  camp  lies, 

Till  the  rails  glint  down  the  pass; 
The  desert  springs  into  fruit  and  wheat 
And  I  lay  the  stones  of  a  solid  street 

Over  yesterday's  untrod  grass. 

I  waste  no  thought  on  my  neighbor's  birth 

Or  the  way  he  makes  his  prayer. 
I  grant  him  a  white  man's  room  on  earth 

If  his  game  is  only  square. 
While  he  plays  it  straight  I'll  call  him  mate; 

If  he  cheats  I  drop  him  flat. 
Old  class  and  rank  are  a  wornout  lie, 
For  all  clean  men  are  as  good  as  I, 

And  a  king  is  only  that. 
59 


I  dream  no  dreams  of  a  nurse-maid  state 

That  will  spoon  me  out  my  food. 
A  stout  heart  sings  in  the  fray  with  fate 

And  the  shock  and  sweat  are  good. 
From  noon  to  noon  all  the  earthly  boon 

That  I  ask  my  God  to  spare 
Is  a  little  daily  bread  in  store, 
With  the  room  to  fight  the  strong  for  more, 

And  the  weak  shall  get  their  share. 

The  sunrise  plains  are  a  tender  haze 

And  the  sunset  seas  are  gray, 
But  I  stand  here,  where  the  bright  skies  blaze 

Over  me  and  the  big  today. 
What  good  to  me  is  a  vague  "may  be" 

Or  a  mournful  "might  have  been," 
For  the  sun  wheels  swift  from  morn  to  morn 
And  the  world  began  when  I  was  born 

And  the  world  is  mine  to  win. 


60 


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